


the worst laid plans

by Medie



Series: Plans-verse [1]
Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is absolutely the worst idea you've ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the worst laid plans

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://noelia-g.livejournal.com/)**noelia_g** for my Birthday Drabble-A-Thon.

This is absolutely the worst idea you've ever had. Not that you think about it much, but you do think about it some. You have to. You're a woman and in this world, that means you think about a lot of things. You don't date people you work with. You never have. In the Marines, it would have been career suicide; in the NYPD, not much has changed. You fuck a coworker, you end up in a world of hurt.

You're not that woman. Not a woman willing to risk it. At least, that's what you've always thought. You're methodical. Careful. You know you're being watched, you know just how many people are waiting for you to fuck this up. You're running forensics for a major metropolitan city. _New York City_. You know the stakes; you've seen your name in print enough. Claire used to keep a scrapbook; she liked to tease you about it.

Don likes to tease you about it now. You think maybe that's what makes this so easy. Claire always liked him.

He bites your jaw, light and playful, and you hiss. That'll leave a mark. You think about scolding him, reminding him it'll invite questions you can't answer, but you don't. You run the best lab in the country. You think it's a damn miracle that Stella hasn't figured it out already. You never could lie to her.

Don's fingers slide over your hips, pushing your skirt up. You don't wear skirts to work, they're hell to work a crime scene in, but you testified today. Did your best tap dance for McCoy's new dream team and put away a philandering councilman turned murderer. You're tired, sticky from the heat, and maybe you need to be reckless.

Maybe that's why you let Don pull you into a storage room and start pulling off clothes. Your jacket's somewhere behind the toilet paper and your panties ("Lace, huh?" asked Don, smirking as he twirled the scrap of fabric around. "Awful impractical there, Detective.") are probably back there too. You'll make him find them later. Don likes it when you give him orders.

Don grins against your neck, fingers stroking your clit. "You with me, Mac?"

"Hmm?" you sigh.

"Didn't think so." You'd think he was offended if you couldn't hear the laughter in his voice. "You're missing some of my best stuff here."

You smile, fingers grabbing handfuls of his shirt. When you tug gently, he lets you pull him back and meets your gaze. What you see in his eyes should scare the fuck out of you. No one's looked at you like that since Claire died.

It doesn't scare you and that scares you more. You lick your lips and Don watches. The intensity of it is a promise that curls through you, pushing warmth beneath your skin, and you shift restlessly. You're wet, ready, and _God_, this relationship is such a bad idea. You should care more about that. You should find your underwear and get out of here, but you don't.

"Really?" you say. "Your _best_?"

He smirks. You love that smirk. Usually, when you see it you're at work. He's closing in on a suspect, armed with the evidence your people gave him, and the perp has no idea. Unlike them, you think you're going to enjoy what he's got for you. "Well, I'm not done _yet_."

"Oh, I hope not," you say. "If I'm going to make Sid wait, it should be worth my time."

Don laughs. "Geez, that's cold, Taylor."

"I like Sid," you defend. You rub your thumb along Don's lip. His amusement fades and he opens his mouth, letting it slip inside. His mouth is warm, wet, and when his tongue strokes your thumb, you let out a surprised, "Oh."

He crowds closer, one hand working its way between you. You close your eyes. Don's breath is ragged in your ear, hot against your neck, and over it you hear the telltale rasp of a zipper.

You press your lips together, tasting the salt of your own sweat. When you hear the crackle of foil, your famed resolve melts and you look. Don's head is lowered, his attention focused on the condom as he tries to unwrap it.

Impatience makes him fumble and you reach out, closing your hand around his. "Let me," you say.

He surrenders it. When your fingers touch him, working the condom on, Don groans. "Jesus, fuck, Mac." His hips rock forward into you, the movement sharp as it pushes his cock against your palm. You respond by squeezing and rubbing along the length. He rests his hands on your hips, fingers digging in. There'll be bruises tomorrow. You try not to think about how your body responds to that. "Fuck, Mac, that's good."

You grin and jack him slowly, wanting to watch the way his eyes glaze over with pleasure. He's yours right now. Completely. You think you could ask anything of him and he'd agree. The rush of power in the moment is heady. Dangerous, you think. Passion always is. You both see every day just how wrong it can go.

You kiss him. You don't want to be thinking about that right now. You think about it enough.

The touch of your mouth to his triggers something in Don. He surges forward, trapping you against the wall. For a moment, you think of a thousand different ways to throw him off, ways to break the hold, but you don't want to. You wrap your arms around his neck and let him lift you up.

He thrusts in, hard and fast, and almost painful. You voice your approval in a gasp, closing your eyes as you arch. You tighten your grip and go with the rhythm, hoping no one hears the suspiciously rhythmic noise, and secretly thrilled that someone _might_.

That's what makes this so damn dangerous. It tempts you to do things you never would and you like it. This could ruin the both of you if you're not careful and the scary part is that you might not care.

He comes first, shuddering against you, and moaning your name into your skin. You know what he'll do next. He takes care of the condom, shoving it into a garbage bucket, and goes to his knees.

"You'll ruin your pants," you warn, half-hearted.

"Never liked 'em anyway," says Don.

His tongue on your skin makes your knees go weak. You stay on your feet by sheer force of will. Don works on you with one of your hands gripping his short hair and the other the wall, holding you up.

You come so hard you bite your tongue, tasting blood.

-

You walk into the morgue a half hour late. Your legs are still rubbery, you smell like sex, and you never did find your underwear.

You have a feeling Don knows where they are. Idly, you wonder what he'll do with them. The possibilities make your mouth go dry.

"You all right, Mac?" asks Sid. He puts on his glasses, peering at you like you're a body on his slab. It's sweet. Odd, but sweet. Vintage Sid. "You look flushed."

"Long day," you lie, rubbing your neck. He looks and you remember the hickey, dropping your hand before you draw attention to it. "The heat is murder."

"Keeps us in business anyway," agrees Sid. If he doesn't believe you, he doesn't let on. "Anyway, about our victim -- "

You're speculating on binary poisons when Don walks in a few minutes later. He stands across from you and grins, a telltale flash of red peeking out of his pocket.


End file.
